


Bulletproof

by deinvati



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Love Confessions, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24030427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati/pseuds/deinvati
Summary: Arthur's projection of Eames is behaving... strangely. No big deal. He'll just get his subconscious under control before it becomes a problem. And worst-case scenario, you can shoot a projection. Right? RIGHT?
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 113





	Bulletproof

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cardist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardist/gifts).



> HUGE thanks to new fic wife [Storm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storm_of_sharp_things/profile), who looked this over and made ~~me~~ it better.

Arthur wanted to check the build one more time and then he could wrap things up for the night. He'd been anxious about this one but couldn't put his finger on why, and backup plans for his backup plans were the only answer when that itch between his shoulder blades told him to watch his back.

He double-checked the security measures he'd put in place to kick him awake at any sign of an intruder and settled the headphones on his ears. As he hooked himself up to the PASIV in the dusky warehouse, he smirked at the memory of telling Ariadne the dangers of dreaming alone. Desperate times, he supposed.

Since Dom had gotten out, Arthur took jobs where he could, still held at arm's length by almost everyone in dreamshare. Inception hadn't quite given him the reputation he'd assumed it would, as most people still didn't believe it could be done, but Dom's reputation preceded Arthur, along with the risky shit they'd pulled. However, he was good at what he did, and he was building his own name now, one success at a time.

"Eames," he said casually, once he was under. "Shocked to see you here."

The projection didn't reply, he never did, which was how Arthur knew it was a dream. Topside, Eames couldn't resist having the last word.

This projection of Eames had started showing up immediately after the Inception job and would follow him around, hands in his pockets, watching him with a smug smile.

"Got nowhere to be, I see," Arthur griped as he walked the maze. "Typical. Just showing up to throw off my concentration. Appreciate that. Helps a lot. Thanks."

Projection Eames just beamed at him, crooked teeth and all. Arthur shook his head. He and Eames walked together through a Versailles-type garden, Arthur watching for the hedge maze to get narrower, darker, and bottleneck them into the appropriate area. He checked for gaps and tried not to let Eames distract him.

"I wonder what you're actually doing right now," Arthur mused to him. "Last I heard, you were in Mumbai. Are you still there?"

Eames just shrugged, a smile like he knew something Arthur didn't.

Arthur sighed and followed the maze a bit further, making sure the dark sky and ominous crows lifted the moment he stepped into the clearing. It was a recreation of the mark's childhood bedroom, designed to make them feel safe and relieved. A sleeping calico was curled on the foot of the bed, just like the picture he'd seen. He checked the cigar box was underneath, empty, and waiting to be filled with secrets.

"Think it'll do?" he asked Eames. It wasn't lost on him that he wanted projection Eames' approval just as much as he wanted the actual Eames' approval.

In response, projection Eames stepped into his space, too close, closer than Arthur had ever let Eames get. He still had that knowing smirk, but Arthur's gaze was pinned to ice gray eyes staring into his, the ghost of a few days of stubble making him want to _touch_. He caught the slightest whiff of aftershave. Was that real? Is that how Eames smelled up close? Or was it just what Arthur wanted him to smell like?

Eames' smile softened and he leaned in, nuzzling under Arthur's jaw.

Arthur jerked back. "What the fuck, Eames?" He stepped away, one uncertain hand out to hold him off. The projection had never done that before.

Eames just smiled at him, but instead of a knowing smile, this one was… fond. Like Arthur had just told an inside joke they were sharing. He stepped toward him again and Arthur drew his gun.

"Don't," he said shakily. "Don't come any closer."

Eames just shook his head, laughing, and came toward him again, hands up to cup Arthur's jaw.

Arthur pressed the gun to Eames' ribs, but he didn't seem deterred. He was so _intense_ ; why was he so intense?

With a determined air, Eames drew Arthur to him, eyes on Arthur's mouth, and Arthur knew he was going to be kissed. He readjusted the grip on the gun and swallowed.

When their lips met, Arthur's heart lurched with want. It was sweet and soft and perfect, sliding into more as Eames drew him even closer and Arthur forgot to breathe.

He could feel a tear slip down his cheek while Eames kissed him, as anger choked him: anger at himself, at Eames, at everything. He wanted this. _Why_ did he want this? Why did he have to carry this around with him, every second of the day, every step heavier for having not had it?

With a grunt through clenched teeth, Arthur pushed Eames away. He didn't look upset or even surprised at being shoved, just still exasperatingly fond. Except now his lips looked red and kiss-swollen.

Arthur raised the gun. "Stay away from me," he said, although he didn't sound like he meant it, even to his own ears. "I mean it. I don't need you. I don't need anyone. I am fine on my own."

Eames tilted his head like Arthur was being silly. "Darling."

Arthur roared with rage and emptied the clip.

When he awoke, alone and shaking, the clock by the PASIV told him it had been 5 minutes. It felt like a decade had passed.

Arthur took out his IV line with unsteady hands, disposing of sharps, rolling the lines, marking his findings in his journal. Just the ones for the job though. Not a single note about how his projection of Eames had progressed to not only kissing him but calling him "darling" in that smooth accent. No notes either about Arthur shooting him, emptying round after round in his direction, and the bullets passing through like he was made of smoke.

This was bad. This was very, very bad. Projections were supposed to be impacted by the way your subconscious knew things to work. You break something, it gets broken. You shoot at something, it gets shot.

Arthur had only ever seen one projection behave this way. Mal. He'd been so mad at Dom for not shooting her when he _knew_ it wasn't real. But then he'd learned. Dom literally couldn't shoot her. He told Arthur he'd tried a thousand times, and had to listen to her chastise him in French afterward.

But Eames wasn't dead. At least, he hadn't been last week when Arthur checked up on him. Still living abroad, still spending Saito's money like it was going out of style. And they weren't even friends, let alone guilt-ridden spouses. So why was he haunting Arthur?

Arthur knew one thing. He had four days before they were supposed to extract from the mark, and he couldn't go into a job where Eames was going to show up, distract him, get in the way, and then _refuse to die_. He needed to get on a plane right now.

He needed to find Eames.

Arthur lost two days between being stuck in Mumbai traffic and looking for that asshole at "I dunno, some train station," where his roommate said he spent his days. As baked as his roommate appeared to be, Arthur began to wonder if he hadn't meant a subway station, or a bus station, or a fucking police station.

But when he finally saw him, indeed at a train station, Eames was leaning casually against a column, eating pistachios out of a bag, and picking the pockets of unsuspecting tourists. Arthur stood for a moment, letting his heart race, and hating that it was a familiar feeling. He recognized it as his standard reaction to Eames, now that he was being honest with himself.

"Aren't you filthy rich now?" Arthur asked finally, coming up beside him. "Is this really necessary?"

Eames looked over at him as Arthur helped himself to a pistachio, calm and unsurprised to see him, as if they'd spoken even once in the last six months.

"Oh, you know," he said, looking Arthur up and down before turning his attention back to the passing crowd, "I needed some way to pay for Param's weed." His lips twisted ruefully. "Arsehole," he muttered under his breath.

"Hey now," Arthur said placidly, "you act like I didn't have to track you down at all. Param's not _that_ helpful."

Eames grunted and pushed away from the column, apparently abandoning his ill-gotten pursuits for the day. He stopped by a trash can to dispose of the bag of shells and the wallets he'd lifted, after skimming everything of use from them first, of course.

"So, are you looking for a job or are you offering one?" Eames said, still not looking at him, and Arthur slid on a pair of sunglasses.

"Neither," he said, and felt Eames look at him at that.

He was quiet for a few moments before turning down another street, this one in the direction of Eames' apartment. "So it's a social call, is it? Doesn't really sound like the Arthur I know."

Arthur watched his feet because he didn't really have a response to that. He was right, of course. Arthur had never given Eames the impression he was interested in a friendship, let alone anything else. Just because Eames occupied most of his waking thoughts and literally all of his sleeping ones didn't mean he had any right to show up out of the blue and expect Eames not to toss him out on his ear.

"Did you mean what you said?" Arthur asked.

Eames stopped walking and frowned at him. They were surrounded by people, somehow ignoring them and also glaring at them at the same time. "Did I mean what I said when?" Eames asked, irritated.

Arthur licked his lips. "At the airport. After the Fisher job."

Now Eames looked doubly irritated, his nostrils flaring and he resumed the walk to his apartment. The pinched look stayed as he said, "You mean, 'do you want to get a room?' Did I mean that?"

"And, 'Take in the sights,' yes," Arthur confirmed, hurrying to keep up. "Did you mean it?"

"Of bloody course I meant it," Eames spat out, not looking at all like a man who wanted to take Arthur sightseeing. "Do you say things like that when you don't mean them?"

" _I_ don't, no," Arthur said. "But I have no idea what you do."

"No, you say things like, 'Hilarious, Mr. Eames,' and then walk off," Eames continued as if he hadn't heard Arthur. "Which, I don't mind telling you, was the first time I've gotten that particular response, so ta, Arthur, for that delightful new experience."

"Well, I thought you were just being an asshole!" Arthur said, wincing as he heard himself.

"Yes, you've made it quite clear what you think of me, so you can just—"

"I have not!" Arthur interrupted, reaching for his arm and pulling them to a stop.

Eames faced him and huffed out an angry breath. "Why are you _here_ , Arthur?"

"Because I can't shoot you!"

The crowd around them parted, giving Arthur a wide berth, and no one made eye contact. Eames gaped at him, bewildered.

"You can't shoot me? What the bloody hell does that mean?"

Now Arthur was the annoyed one, and that felt familiar too. "Look, can we just go inside somewhere and talk about this?"

But Eames looked enraged. "Were you sent here to shoot me, Arthur? By whom, if I may? And wh—"

"No," Arthur said, alarmed. "I'm not here to shoot you."

Eames studied him for a few seconds before his jaw clenched and he shook his head, but he said, "Come on," and led the way. They finished the walk to his apartment in silence, Eames not looking at Arthur once, but Arthur couldn't help stealing glances at Eames.

Eames unlocked his door, ignored Param's greeting, and stormed to his room. Arthur had already done a quick pass when he was here before, and Eames paused in the doorway to see if anything had been disturbed. He pointed to a chair in the corner.

"Sit," he said. "Talk."

Arthur didn't sit, but he said, "I have an Eames projection."

Eames sat on the bed and raised an eyebrow. "Okay?"

He didn't sound upset, so Arthur barreled on. "He's been showing up since the Fischer job, but then…" With a sigh, Arthur loosened his tie and sat on the chair Eames had indicated. "Then I went into a test run for this job and I tried to shoot him, but the bullets didn't have any effect."

Curiosity sparked in Eames' eyes. "Didn't have any effect? Why?"

Arthur had a few theories but Eames beat him to it.

"Is this why Dom never shot Mal?" he asked.

Arthur blinked. "You knew about that?"

"Bloody hell, of course not, I didn't know anything about anything," Eames frowned. "You two were not what I would call 'sharers of information'. But if there's another reason why he didn't shoot the crazy projection who clearly _wasn't his wife_ , I can't think of one."

Arthur, who knew better, looked at his shoes. "Yes, well, you're not wrong. Dom tried shooting her plenty of times. He told me he stopped because it never worked, but I think him stopping made it worse for him, later."

"So?" Eames asked. "You keep shooting. What's the problem?"

Arthur leveled an annoyed look at him. "You think I'd be here if that was a solution?"

He assumed Eames would return his annoyance, maybe storm out, and he'd have to chase him down again, angry with his own inability to not goad this man.

Instead, Eames leaned back on his elbows, all thighs and shoulders, with a wicked grin.

"Dunno, do I? Are you here to take in the sights then?"

Arthur's mouth went dry at the sight in front of him and he swallowed. He shook his head to clear it. "No, I just… I need to sort a few things out, I guess, so that the projection isn't an issue on the job I'm working."

"Why?" Eames tilted his head. "What's my projection doing?"

Arthur scowled at him. "It's _my_ projection, and none of your business. But apparently my subconscious feels the need to bring it up, so I figured I needed to just," he gestured abruptly, "clear the air."

"Arthur," Eames said, the smile on his face just a little too smug, reminding Arthur of his projection counterpart. "Why did you try to shoot me? What was I doing?"

Arthur growled, "It wasn't _you_ , for fuck's sake, and I just came here to make sure. I thought you were making fun of me when you said that thing outside the airport. Because it was obvious you hated me."

"Of course I don't," Eames snorted.

Arthur had been so caught up in trying to understand the feelings Eames had stirred up when he'd offered to spend time with Arthur outside of a job, he hadn't really thought about what it might mean if Eames had been serious. And now he was in Eames' room, with him spread out on his bed, saying he didn't... hate him.

He tried to get a hold of himself. "Right, so, you were… serious."

Eames grinned wider.

"So you want to… get a room."

"Got a room, haven't I," Eames said, still grinning. He waggled his eyebrows. "Any sights you want to see?"

Arthur felt himself blushing to the roots of his hair and he _hated_ it, just as much as he hated the stupid grin that spread over his face. "Um."

Eames laughed and sat up. "Come here, darling. Let's give your imagination a bit of a wakeup call on what your projection of me _should_ be doing."

Arthur felt relief flood through him and his shoulders sagged. Then he grinned at Eames and raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. Yes. Let's do that."


End file.
